


In the Glow

by Rosage



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, brief imagined body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:40:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25656067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: It’s easy for Nadia to give Muriel a cottage. It’s harder for him to make a home.
Relationships: Muriel/Nadia (The Arcana)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	In the Glow

Muriel blocks the sunshine through his window with an arm. The palace’s trees don't shade the cottage enough. Now that mornings don’t blend into murky twilight, he can’t ignore the crowing rooster. He reaches for his cloak, looks outside, and finds a shirt to pull on. It constricts his chest, but only just; the countess had it tailored. A waste.

He steps outside, wrinkling his nose at the bright colors. Grass and trees grow lush around the cottage, dotted with every warm hue of wildflower. A young chicken bobs over to him. He clucks at her to be patient while he redoes his magical lock, then heads to the feed, chickens following like ducklings.

They eat as voraciously as they did in the forest. It’s odd how little they mind the change, but his chest lightens.

Wait—he’s having company. Knots reform in his chest. He’s going to be a bad host. He’d be a bad host even if this were his house.

He drags himself over to the tea table, shaded beneath a willow’s draping branches. Bushes defend it from most sides. It sits just out of view of the cottage, conspicuous enough that Nadia must have placed it recently. A coincidence.

He fumbles with the cups, her cups, so delicate in his large hands. His breath quickens. He sets them down and retreats to the willow’s trunk.

Light footsteps jolt him. Nadia greets him, her fluttering dress poor protection. He remains rooted like the shadows can eat the space he takes. Undeterred, she cradles the kettle and closes her eyes until steam whistles from it.

“Asra and I have been swapping spells,” she says with a wink. The familiarity draws him to join her at the table. “How are you finding your accommodations?”

“Too bright. But not the worst. The chickens don’t mind the—the house.”

“You may call it yours, you know. I might not be able to provide the comfort of home, but I hope you feel you have a space here.”

“I don’t need comfort.” He paws at his knee and works his jaw. “I didn’t build it.”

She smiles as if he’s said something good. “I know you are self-sufficient, but you more than earned it with your aid in saving the city. Besides, you did a wonderful job of fixing it up.”

Some fool abandoned it, just for a leaky roof, a creaky floorboard, and an overgrowth of ivy. Easily repaired or ignored. He doesn’t deserve a reward, but Nadia insists it doesn’t put him in debt. And what about the shirt on his back, or the tea she hands him?

While she chats, he cradles the cup. He sips without breaking it. When she asks about the taste, he doesn’t know what to say.

* * *

He patrols the gardens, evading the gardeners and animal handlers. After a pair of familiar guards mistake him for a burglar, he avoids their route—better to cover for their sloppy rounds, anyway. He checks the plants’ health and picks weeds. Bees bop around him and squirrels chitter nearby, rare welcome noise.

By the bushes, a cat slides over his feet. He freezes. Portia runs up, a basket swinging from her arm, and begins picking berries. Pepi lifts one with her teeth, careful not to squish it.

“Thank you, sweetie, but watch out for those thorns,” Portia says.

Shuffling to the side, Muriel bumps into a chipped stone ram. Portia leans forward.

“Do you know this statue’s secret? There’s a hatch nearby that leads into the wine cellar,” she says. She rubs her hands, spreading juice stains. Muriel checks for eavesdroppers.

“Someone could sneak in.”

“Not if they don’t know how. That’s not the only hidden passage, either. They say the one by the fountain is haunted.”

How can she grin about it? Do the passages have locks? Traps? Are the spirits malevolent?

A voice like a harp interrupts. “There you are.”

As he circles around the statue, he almost trips over Pepi. He matches the statue while she rubs against him. A Prakran princess approaches, her basket full of flowers.

“Did you find the violets?” Portia asks.

“I did, thank you. And who is this?” Her gaze lifts to Muriel, who looks away.

“Oh, perfect. Princess Nasmira is touring the gardens, but I’ve got my hands full. Would you mind showing her around, Muriel?”

Yes. Yes. Yes.

“I would greatly appreciate it,” Nasmira says. She steps forward without invading his space. He searches for Inanna, but she’s hunting elsewhere.

He grunts and turns in a random direction. “Come on, then.”

As they walk, she asks questions about the plant varieties and maintenance. _I don’t work here_ , he wants to say, but he knows the answers. Butterflies land on her basket. With a soft little _oh_ , she stops to avoid disturbing them. He catches himself smiling.

At their next stop, hummingbirds zoom around a patch of honeysuckle. “I didn’t realize these grew in the area,” Nasmira says.

“They don’t.” Muriel burns. He forgot to, for a second. “He… someone brought them.”

“That explains the birds of paradise,” Nasmira says. For the first time, her smile vanishes. “Are they all right here?”

“I don’t know. They’re loud.” Muriel considers her serious expression before pointing down the path. “There’s a pond. It has flowering sparkgrass. Here, they’re weeds—they overtake everything. But he—people like how the flowers shine.”

“That’s a shame. We should bring it up with Nadia. She could arrange more suitable environments.”

“She has better things to do.”

“I’m sure she would listen. Would you like me to mention it?”

Will Nadia get upset with him? He’s not supposed to be here any more than the sparkgrass. At least its flowers make people smile.

“Do what you want,” he says.

* * *

After Nasmira leaves, Muriel retreats to the cottage and sits on the overly soft bed. Even though it’s large enough, he tucks in to take up less space. The room is the size of his hut, with a similar fireplace, table, and shelves. But he never brought his furs or bear figurine, afraid they’d be lost or stolen. Someone will kick him out soon anyway.

Curled up on the floor, Inanna studies him. She treads over to nudge his knee. Without the bear to hold, he caves and buries a hand in her neck fur. Warm skin expands and contracts beneath the coarse hair. She rests her chin on his lap, and he imagines the smell of myrrh. If he closes his eyes, they could be home.

A knock makes his heart knock against his ribs. Inanna woofs until he opens the door for Nadia, standing in her riding outfit. Muriel stares. Inanna nips at his heel.

“Do not worry, Inanna, I do not mean to intrude,” Nadia says.

She explains that Nasmira mentioned the invasive species, but couldn’t remember where she learned about them. So the thing that’s supposed to hide him reveals his footprint. Figures.

Considering Muriel wouldn’t want to talk to the palace employees, Nadia asks him for a direct report on the species to relocate.

Work. Of course.

“I will not make you,” she says. Inanna stares at him. Sweat slides down his back.

“Let’s just go before it’s too dark.”

He retraces his tour and tells Nadia about other problems. She writes it all down, only speaking to ask for clarification. Around dusk, they arrive at the pond. The sparkgrass glows like fireflies swaying in the breeze.

“It certainly is lovely,” Nadia says. Crouching in the mud, Muriel holds aside a clump of stems to point out the smaller plants trying to grow. “How perceptive of you. I shall speak to someone about moving the sparkgrass.”

Even when he’s done, she remains quiet. It would ease him if her shoulders weren’t tense, the tip of her quill tapping against her lips.

“Sorry,” he says.  
  
“Whatever for?”

“Bothering you.”

“You haven’t in the slightest. I apologize for being dour.” She bites the quill’s tip. “Did you enjoy your time with Mira?”

“It was… fine.”

“I see.” It isn’t harsh, but it isn’t fur-soft like usual. “I am glad. She is unnaturally charming. Even those I tried to befriend as a child thought so.” She shakes her head and tucks her quill in her notebook.

“Sorry,” he repeats.

“It is not your fault. I suppose it wasn’t even hers, for being easy to get along with. I always found it more difficult to make friends.” Her flushed cheeks must be a trick of the light.

“But you’re so…”

“So what?”

His face heats for real. “You know.” He swallows and grips his cloak. “Nice. Good at talking.”

“You truly think so?”

How can she ask that when crowds cleave to her words? When Asra vouches for her, when Inanna pushes Muriel toward her, when he left his forest just to…

He slams the door on that thought.

“People listen, even though you don’t make them,” he says.

Her face brightens in the glow of the sparkgrass, and the plant’s draw makes sense for the first time.

“That means a lot, coming from you. You would not flatter me baselessly,” she says.

Still flushed, he turns back toward the path.

* * *

The day Asra returns from a trip, he corrals Muriel and Nadia into exploring the palace woods. The canopy offers relief from the dry heat. Not that Muriel would have noticed, if Nadia weren’t there.

She presses Asra for travel stories while Muriel leads them everywhere he can fit. He steps softly around a tree with a bird’s nest, pointing out the source of the little peeps, and shows Nadia a patch of wild lavender. Asra’s chatter quiets as he watches them.

 _Go back to talking about the giant rabbits_ , Muriel thinks.

“So, how’s the new place?” Asra asks instead.

Too aware of Nadia listening, Muriel says, “Still standing.”

“Mhm. And does Inanna like it?”

“She hasn’t left yet.”

Two sets of raised brows make Muriel scoot ahead.

They arrive at a clearing. Asra plops down below a large tree and picks flowers. The sprawling branches remind Muriel of the tree above his old hut, his _home_ , and his gut tightens. He scans the perimeter for signs of an ambush. Nadia seems to search for something else. Muriel looks from the dirt to her white, tailored pants and frilled jacket. He’s about to suggest they forget it when she grabs a tree branch and swings up. 

Asra drops the crown he’d been weaving and stands. A grin overtakes him as he climbs opposite her, spurring her farther. Her limber ascent, like she doesn’t live in a palace, mesmerizes Muriel. They reach heights that make his heart pound before they call down to him. He thunks down in the shade and picks up the abandoned flower crown.

Nadia whistles. An owl drops through the canopy to perch beside her. It spreads pink wings and glides down to land on Muriel’s arm.

“Chandra must like you,” Nadia calls down. The owl watches him too perceptively for an animal whose eyes swirl with galaxies. Shyly, Muriel places the flower crown on her head, and she preens. It makes him smile before he remembers she must have real crowns.

Even if he were indebted, he wouldn’t have anything to offer. He hunches in the tree’s shade. It doesn’t please him to finally feel small.

* * *

In his dreams, a mob swarms the cottage. Their shouts warn him in time. He escapes through a trap door and trips down a dark tunnel, insults echoing after him. He emerges in the palace. Frills and perfume assault him before the walls crawl with red.

The shouts grow near again. _Scourge, monster, murderer_. Panting, he turns a corner and runs into Nadia. She recoils from him before the windows shatter. When he tries to throw himself in front of her, his feet fuse into the marble.

Muriel wakes in a sea of sweat. He sits in bed, thinking of holes in the cellar and in the patrols. Nadia can take care of herself. She can get better guards. Better than him.

He gets up to collect his knife and spare wood. He sits at the table to whittle a branch into shavings. By the second branch, Inanna wakes with a sneeze and joins him. He selects a block of wood and turns it in his hand, until the round shape resembles an owl.

The day before, they rode horses. It started slow until they reached the fields. Nadia surged forward, laughing as if she had no cares on the many horizons around them. Afterward, she took his hand in both of hers to thank him, and he left without saying goodbye to his horse.

He checks the moon. Still hours before morning. These are prime burglary hours—the guards had better not be drunk or asleep. Inanna howls outside while he resumes whittling. He can only carve one sloppy star in each eye, and he doesn’t get Chandra’s feathers right. Hands shaking, he sets down the knife.

He begins a fresh set of talismans. The woods around the palace still need protection. With the portals _that_ _man_ commissioned, an outer ring won’t be enough, but Muriel can’t get close enough to ward the palace. Not when horrors will follow.

It doesn’t matter. It’s not like he lives there.

But the talismans pile up, until they stack higher than the wood shavings.

* * *

After an hour of hanging back, he asks Portia to escort him to Nadia. From their posts, the guards eye his bundle of talismans. Nadia’s sharp glances keep them at bay.

“Thank you for doing this,” she says. She lowers her voice. “Disturbances have snuck into my dreams. I feel much safer with you looking out for me.”

Safer. Safer with him on the veranda, hovering beside her tea table.

“It’s not like that,” he says. A mob’s shouts return to him. “Dreams?”

“They are too muddled to be prophecies. Worry not, Muriel. I have other trusted people looking out for me. Truthfully, I suffer more headaches than danger.”

“Not surprising.”

She sips her tea, looking like she wishes it were wine. “Indeed. Despite positive changes to my court, there are those who only gossip.”

Apparently, some insist she take a consort. It’s not his business, but his stomach flips. It rights itself when she says, “I won’t do it. I value my independence, as you understand.”

He nods. She props her chin on her hand.

“Sometimes, I consider planting rumors about a lover across the sea,” she says. “It would certainly make things easier for you.”

“How so?”

“Why, so people won’t look in the gardens for a handsome lad.”

She winks and pats his elbow. His face melts down to his neck. Sputtering, he scurries off to hang up talismans.

He’ll give her the owl when he gets it right. Until then, he’ll have to retrieve the bear to keep it company.


End file.
